For all the places without souvenirs.
Exquisitely trayfred meat, that anti-soy,
That "I am not," for poor embitteredSpaniards. Complicitous, and even zealous,
You smirk back, glad to be Scarlett
In Tara’s burning cinematic lunacy.

You’ll rub it and it will smear. Embittered,
You’ll remember her words: "Love is lunacy."
You’ll unveil bleach: an oxidizer so zealous
That you’ll quench the painful souvenir
Without meaning to. The pillow case, like soy,
Will sit blandly, but you’ll imagine a blur of scarlet.